Ken McClure - Crisis

‘He knew the man who worked at the garage. Colin had his car serviced there.’

‘Were they close friends?’

‘No.’

‘How about the men from Inverladdie Farm?’

‘He didn’t know them at all.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘He may have known them to nod to in the street, but no better than that,’ said Julie. ‘He steered clear of sheep farmers whenever he could.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Colin was a clever man, Dr Bannerman. He worked as a labourer but he had a good brain. He was bored by constant talk of sheep. He resented the fact that so much of the life of the town revolved around sheep and sheep farming. I think that’s what made him decide to do a part-time degree. It exercised his mind. It gave him the stimulation he needed.’

Bannerman nodded. He asked, ‘Did you and Colin ever eat apart?’

Julie Turnbull’s face registered surprise at the question. She half shrugged her shoulders in bewilderment and said, ‘No, not that I can think of, except for lunch of course.’

‘Lunch?’

‘Colin took sandwiches to the quarry.’

‘Who made them?’

‘Me. What are you suggesting Doctor? That Colin was killed by something he ate?’

Bannerman was reluctant to commit himself to a straight answer. He said, ‘Mrs Turnbull it’s important that I establish certain details about Colin’s diet over the past two weeks or so. Please bear with me.’

‘What details?’ asked Julie Turnbull.

‘Sheep products in particular. Mutton, lamb.’

‘That’s easy, none.’

‘None?’

‘Colin disliked sheep meat. He never ate it at all.’

‘Never?’ repeated Bannerman, feeling failure descend on him like a lead yoke.

‘Never.’

‘Does this mean that Colin was vegetarian?’

‘No. He liked nothing better than a good steak. He simply didn’t like mutton or lamb.’

Bannerman tried desperately to think of another way that Turnbull could have contracted the disease. He knew he would probably not have another chance to question Julie Turnbull. He asked a broad general question, ‘Did anything change about Colin’s lifestyle in the past two to three weeks? Did he do anything out of the ordinary or different?’

Julie shook her head slowly as she considered. ‘No, I don’t think so, except for the geological survey of course.’

‘Tell me about that,’ said Bannerman.

‘He’s been doing geology for his degree. He thought he would impress Mr van Gelder if he carried out a survey of the land in the surrounding area.’

‘I remember him saying something about that the last time I saw him,’ said Bannerman. ‘He was hoping for a better job with the company.’

‘That’s right,’ replied Julie. She paused as she considered that this would not now ever happen.

‘When did he do this Mrs Turnbull?’

‘At the weekends.’

‘Was he out last weekend?’ Julie Turnbull nodded.

‘Do you know where?’

Julie shook her head but she got up and went over to a writing desk to open the drawer. She pulled out a series of charts and said, These are Colin’s notes on his work.’

‘May I borrow them?’

Julie handed them over without saying anything.

Bannerman got up to go. He thanked Julie, offered his sympathy again and said, ‘I’ll see that these are returned to you.’

‘How did it go?’ asked Shona when Bannerman got back to the hotel.

‘Not good,’ replied Bannerman. ‘Turnbull never ate mutton or lamb. He didn’t like it.’

‘What rotten luck,’ said Shona. ‘Just as it all seemed to fit together.’

Bannerman smiled wryly and said, ‘That’s the way it goes.’

‘Perhaps he ate it without knowing?’

‘How?’

‘In a stew or a curry or something.’

Bannerman hadn’t considered that possibility but he dismissed it after a little thought. Turnbull ate nothing but what his wife cooked except for lunch-times when he ate sandwiches prepared by her. She wouldn’t have given him something he didn’t like.’

‘I suppose not,’ agreed Shona. ‘Maybe a restaurant meal she forgot about?’

‘If infected meat had been served in a restaurant there would have been lots of cases,’ said Bannerman.

‘So how did he get it?’ asked Shona.

‘I wish to hell I knew.’

Bannerman and Shona were sitting in the hotel bar just after ten o’clock when the barman came over to say that Banner-man’s car had been bumped in the car-park by a leaving customer. He didn’t think the damage was great but would he mind taking a look? The driver concerned was waiting for him in the car-park.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Bannerman. The hire company will have me black-listed if this goes on.’

‘Don’t lose your temper,’ cautioned Shona with a smile.

‘Won’t be long,’ said Bannerman.

He walked round to the hotel car-park and over to his car. The car-park wasn’t well lit — a single lamp was mounted on the back wall of the hotel — but he should have been able to see anyone waiting there. There was no sign. He took a look round the car for signs of damage and failed to see anything. After a second inspection he thought he detected a small scrape on the rear bumper but when he bent down to touch it he found that it disappeared when he rubbed it; it was dirt. He stood up and took another look around the car-park; it remained silent and empty.

Bannerman shrugged his shoulders and decided that the man must have left when he saw that there were no real signs of damage after all. Modern plastic bumpers could take much more in the way of impact than the old metal ones without showing signs of damage. He started to walk back up the lane leading to the front of the hotel when, suddenly, he was gripped from behind and pushed hard up against the wall of the building. His broken nose came into contact with the rough stone and he let out a yelp of pain. Tears welled up in his eyes. ‘Where is Colin Turnbull’s body?’ rasped a voice behind him.

‘I’ve no idea,’ gasped Bannerman, as he fought against having his arms twisted up his back.

‘You were told that Julie Turnbull didn’t want the body interfered with, weren’t you?’ said the voice. The statement was punctuated with another painful jerk on his arms. ‘But that wasn’t good enough for you was it?’

Bannerman let out a gasp of pain and tried to lean forward to take some of the pressure off his shoulder sockets. As he did so a knee came up and caught him between the legs. He cried out and the grip on him was relaxed, allowing him to fall to the ground.

‘Where is the body?’ repeated the voice.

Bannerman thought he recognized it despite the fact that the man was angry and rasping rather than speaking. He turned over and saw his attackers. There were two of them. Mitchell, the security chief, and one of the two power workers who had been plaguing his life. ‘You should bloody know!’ he replied through his pain.

‘What does that mean?’ demanded Mitchell, drawing back his foot as if to kick Bannerman on the ground. Bannerman curled up defensively. When the kick wasn’t delivered he said, ‘What’s this pantomime all about Mitchell? Your lot took it away last night. How do you think I got a face like this?’

Mitchell took a closer look at Bannerman’s face and saw the black eyes and damage to his nose. He seemed lost for words for a moment. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you didn’t have Turnbull’s body removed for pathology?’ he said.

‘Of course I didn’t,’ gasped Bannerman. ‘And you were the only ones interested in preventing me doing that. You have interfered with my work here through every step of the way because you imagine I’m trying to close you down, so what is all this crap about me taking the body?’